Death in Springtime Read online

  One who smoked too much, that was evident by the time the car turned on to the autostrada going south towards Siena, its light and siren going although the roads were fairly quiet. It was still dark and the weather was wet and foggy, but the blue fog inside the car was worse as the Substitute lit his third pungent little Tuscan cigar. The Captain tried to slide the back window down as unobtrusively as possible when the young Sub-lieutenant sitting beside the driver began to choke. But the Substitute caught his movement and, with a quick sidelong smile and a rueful glance at the offending object, he leaned back in his seat and said solemnly: 'It's my only vice.'

  Out of the corner of his eye the Captain took in the man's elegant, obviously expensive clothes, noted the perfume not quite smothered by cigar smoke, and remembered the remark about whether it was worth while going to bed. He said nothing.

  The car left the autostrada and the bright new factories dotted about the valley and took a narrow, winding road up into the hills on the right. Even in the dreary beginnings of a rainy dawn the newly sprouting vines dotted the hillside with a green that was almost luminous, but the olive trees were the same ghostly grey as the fog. A few people were already astir in the first village they passed through, and when they reached the piazza in Pontino higher up a huddled group stood within the light and warmth of the doorway of the Bar Italia waiting for the first bus down to Florence. The baker and the newsagent were open and there was a light on in the Carabinieri station that stood between them. An anxious young face disappeared from the window as their car drew up and parked under the dripping trees, but it was the Brigadier himself who appeared at the door to meet them. He looked harassed and he was. He hadn't expected this precipitate visit and in the last hour he had bawled out everyone in sight. Whoever had washed up last night hadn't cleaned the cooker, there was no light-bulb in the one cell in the basement and someone had had to be dispatched to wake up the ironmonger because nobody could find a spare. The coffee made by that blasted mother's boy Sartini had been like water as usual and the Brigadier himself hadn't had time to go home and shave. One of his men had been foolish enough to point out that the Company Captain was unlikely to want to use the cooker and that there hadn't been anybody in that cell in all the eight years he'd been there. The Brigadier had still been bawling him out when Sartini had spotted the car.

  'Captain.' The Brigadier saluted the Substitute and Captain and the young lieutenant, and stepped back to let them in. The driver waited in the car. 'I'm afraid every- thing's not as I would like it to be here—you know, of course that we've been without a Marshal for two months now—not that I can't cope after twenty years service in this village, but even so—'

  'Twenty years . . . then you know this area inside out.'

  'Every blade of grass. That's not what I—'

  'Good. The girl? Is she conscious?' The Captain sat down in the Brigadier's chair where the girl's effects were neatly folded and labelled. He immediately took up and unfolded the piece of lined paper. The Substitute had refused the chair offered to him, choosing instead to wander about the room, taking brief puffs on his cigar and regarding everything and everyone with an amused detachment that gave the impression of his being mildly surprised but pleased at having to perform the office of Public Prosecutor. He settled by the window and stared across at the red brick Communist club beyond the budding trees.

  'She's in the cottage hospital, still unconscious as far as I know—I've left one of my boys there in case she comes to, but she's running a high temperature and they're afraid of bronchial pneumonia. We've no way of knowing how long she was out in that rain. She's wounded, too, in one leg, but she can't be moved down to Florence until twenty-four hours have passed because she cracked her head when she fell and there could be concussion.'

  'Lieutenant.' The Captain passed the note up to the young officer standing stiffly just inside the door. The Captain's own English was passable but the younger man's was fluent. He read the letter aloud:

  Dear Daddy,

  They've kidnapped me. Please help me. They will send a message to the Consulate. You have to help me, Daddy, I need you.

  Debbie

  The Captain stared before him in silence for some time.

  'That's all there is, sir.' The young Lieutenant handed back the letter. The Captain took it and looked at it, still without speaking. Finally he said: 'Thank you. Go over to the hospital and relieve the local man. Sit by this other girl's bed. Her name' he picked up the Brigadier's report from beside the telephone 'is Katrine, Katrine . . . If she comes round, talk to her. Write down anything that she says, even in her sleep or in fever. You'll have to stay even through the night, if necessary. We don't know what nationality she is but since her Italian is poor it's likely that she spoke English with her American friend. Get over there immediately. Can you spare a man, Brigadier, to show him the way?'

  'Yessir. Sartini!' The Brigadier went off in search of 'that blasted mother's boy', pleased with the thought of being rid of him, even for twenty minutes.

  The Substitute had turned from the window and was watching the Captain curiously A typewriter was clacking disjointedly in the next room.

  'Something odd?'

  'It seems so. But then, it's too early to judge. We'll go on with routine procedure for now.'

  'Which is?'

  'Dog-handlers will be here shortly. With the girl's clothes we should be able to trace her back at least to the point at which she was dropped during the night—or I hope so, after all that rain. In the meantime, the helicopters will patrol the surrounding area, especially where there are empty farmhouses or huts—the Brigadier here will know every possible hiding-place. Normally I'd also put out road blocks but in this case it's already too late.'

  'Isn't it possible, though, that the other girl could be a hundred kilometres from here and that this one was dumped here to put you off the scent?'

  'It's more than possible, it's probable, but until we know where else to look we'll look here. The real search can't begin until we find out what sort of kidnappers we're dealing with. For the moment—for all we know— they could be a couple of amateurs from this village who've got the girl hidden ten minutes from here. So we search here. And at least we'll find the girls' car because according to what one can make out of her statement, they were removed from it somewhere on the road between here and Taverna yesterday morning . . .'

  A commotion outside the window announced the arrival of the van with the dogs and their handlers. A small crowd had gathered in the piazza as the morning advanced and people came out to buy bread or eat a hurried breakfast in the bar before catching the bus. One or two of the cars parked beneath the trees in the centre started up and moved off. The dogs were restless and panting, their breath steamy in the rain. One of the handlers came into the office and saluted briefly.

  'Captain. What have you got for us?'

  From the heap of clothing he took the girl's blue jeans, grumbling, 'After that downpour last night . . .'

  As soon as the handler had left, the Brigadier poked his head round the door.

  'I've kept the florist here in case you wanted to talk to him. Otherwise I'll let him get back to work. I've had his statement typed up.'

  The clacking in the next room had stopped.

  'I'll see him. Bring his statement in, too.'

  The florist had removed his big green apron but the Brigadier had to force him to take off his trilby as he brought him in the door, muttering under his breath, 'This is a State office, you know very well . . .'

  The florist sat down, his back straight, his hat gripped tightly on his knees, mortified at having to exhibit his bald crown, a thing he never did, even at mealtimes. He uncovered his head only after switching out the light at bedtime.

  The Captain glanced at him and said quickly: 'Cavalry?'

  The old man, who had been about to start grumbling about being kept so long from his work, blushed with pride and pleasure. 'Second Geno'va.'

  He kept
a photograph of himself on horseback in full dress uniform in the back of the shop. In those days he'd had thick wavy hair. There wasn't a girl in the village he couldn't . . . but when he thought about it, there was nothing in his statement, so far as he could remember, that said anything about . . . He tried to read it again, upside down, but the Captain picked it up, murmuring as he glanced through it: 'It's obvious from the way you sit. Something you never lose ...'

  MORI, Vittorio, born in Pontino, Province of Florence, 11.3.1913 and presently resident there.

  Occupation: florist

  A.Q.: Towards five-thirty this morning, having just got back from the flower market, I was working in the front quarters of my shop when I got the idea I'd heard a funny noise just outside the window . . .

  'Got the idea you heard?' The Captain looked up, puzzled.

  'Well, because, in the first place I had the radio on, and what with the paraffin stove going—that makes a bit of noise—and a towel round my head ... I was trying to get my hair and clothes dry. I'd got soaked going to the market.'

  The Captain couldn't avoid a swift glance at the shiny dome flanked by two tufts of grey hair.

  The florist twisted his hat round unhappily. 'At my age you have to take care of yourself . . . Anyway, that was the other thing, it was raining so hard, rattling at the windowpane in the dark . . . even so, I was convinced I'd heard something, and at that hour there's nobody else up except the baker, and he's over here on this side of the Piazza, so I got up to take a look and saw this girl lying there in the rain. It gave me a fright, I don't mind telling you. She's not from round here . . .?'

  'No.' The Captain volunteered no information.

  'I thought not. I went straight round to the Brigadier's house and rang. I didn't want to touch her, not knowing what. . . but I did put a blanket over her. The Brigadier got one of his men and we carried her over here between us. She came to for a bit when we brought her into the light, but I had difficulty following what she said. I gather she's foreign . . .'

  'Goon.'

  'Nothing much else, really, as you can see from what I told the Brigadier—except that, whatever's happened, I've got nothing to do with it—I expect she was attracted by the light in my window if she was lost.'

  'I expect so.'

  'The baker works in the back, you see, so he doesn't show a light until he opens at six. Anyway, it's nothing to do with me. I've told you all I know and I ought to be getting back—I've lost two hours of work as it is.'

  'Have you read through your statement?'

  'With the Brigadier, before.'

  'And you don't want to add or change anything?'

  'I've told you everything, it's nothing to do with . . .'

  'Then sign here.'

  The thick fingers were spattered with blobs of bright paint.

  'And here . . . Right, you can go. If we need you again we'll send for you, but it's not likely.'

  The florist's hat was back in place before the door had closed behind him. The Captain called back the guard who had shown him out; 'Ask the Brigadier to come in, will you?'

  The Brigadier was red in the face: 'Things aren't as they should be . . .'he began again, and tailed off as the Captain indicated that he should sit down.

  The Substitute suddenly pulled up a chair, lit a large pipe, and began watching with interest as the other two examined the girl's effects.

  'Not a thing that helps us,' said the Captain at last. 'And we haven't even got her surname.'

  'Just her first name. She wasn't very coherent . . . and she was in such a bad state I couldn't force her . . .'

  'No, no, I realize that.'

  'The main problem was that she was obsessed with the idea of telephoning—in fact, she's still got the token in her hand, we couldn't get her to part with it.'

  'But she didn't mention this letter?'

  'Not once.'

  The Captain examined it again, frowning. 'Then she was told not to. Not yet, at any rate. Just to make the telephone call. Well, we'll have to wait until we can talk to her. We might give the hospital a call, I think, and get the latest report. If there's any likelihood of her regaining consciousness during the day, it will be worthwhile waiting here.'

  The girl hadn't regained consciousness. There were screens around her bed, and beside it sat the young Sub-lieutenant, almost as motionless as the form under the sheets, staring earnestly at the bandaged head and the small white face.

  CHAPTER 3

  They drove back down to Florence, the Captain silent and thoughtful, the Substitute smoking, making the occasional rapid remark, watching the passing of the wet, ploughed soil between rows of vines and the tops of umbrella pines appearing out of the misty valley far below, smoking . . .

  It had stopped raining by the time they drew into the courtyard at Headquarters. The Substitute jumped out, saying he had to be in court in ten minutes, hurried round to shake the Captain's hand through the car window, and said eagerly: 'Have lunch with me. I want to know all about kidnappings. I'd already heard that you're an expert.'

  'Of necessity. In this area . . .'

  'I'll pick you up at one.'

  'But . . . you haven't a car . . .?'

  'Never use it—unless my registrar drives. Driving interferes with my smoking. I'll get your sentry room to call me a taxi.' And he was gone, a trenchmac thrown round his shoulders, hurrying across the yard and along the old cloister that led to the exit, leaving behind him a trail of aromatic blue smoke.

  Captain Maestrangelo went upstairs to his office and sat down, rubbing a hand wearily over his face. He knew from long experience that a kidnapping usually meant the involvement of the Sardinian shepherds who had, over the past twenty years or so, been steadily leaving their island and bringing their flocks to graze on the hills around Florence. They kept themselves to themselves, never mixing with the Florentines, who admired their cheesemaking and were outraged by their kidnapping. The Sardinians were great experts in both activities for which their remote dwellings surrounded by rich Tuscan pastures were the ideal environment. The Captain sent his Adjutant for the Sardinian file and then set about selecting a group of his most experienced men.

  'Calaresu, Giovanni?'

  'He's inside.'

  'That wouldn't stop him—check up on whether any of his cell-mates have been released lately. Where's his wife?'

  'Gone back to her mother in Sardinia with the children— he's in for eight years.'

  'Find out if he's had any visitors.'

  'Demontis, Salvatore. He could be our man—he lives near Pontino.'

  'Could be, but remember we don't know where these girls live. Take a look round there, in any case. Next.'

  'The adjutant opened the next folder from the pile on the Captain's desk.

  'Mundula, Mario.'

  'I don't know him.'

  'No convictions, sir. They've been here since the fifties, no children, his brother lives with them. They own their two farms and between four and five hundred sheep. Pretty well off.'

  They put the file aside.

  The Captain kept a file on the whole of the Sardinian community in Tuscany. So many of them were interrelated or came from the same Sardinian village that all of them, with or without a record, could usually tell him something if they would. Unless forced, they wouldn't. Unless forced, they were the most stubbornly silent people in the world. Silent out of pride and independence, not out of fear. The Captain, despite the amount of work and trouble they caused him, liked the Sardinians.

  'Piladu, Paolo?'

  'He's all right, but his eldest boy's been in trouble once or twice . . . pay them a visit and see what the boy's doing now, if he's got any work. He's never been much help to his father.'

  They worked on through the files for the rest of the morning, a routine they had been through so often that they commented mostly in half-sentences or barely audi- ble grunts. By twenty to one they had finished. The Captain glanced at his watch. These men should have gone off
duty at twelve but he was able to dismiss only two of them whom he could replace with experienced men from the afternoon shift. These two, when they arrived, he sent to the prison. The others went off to have a bite to eat before begining their checks on the Sardinian shepherds they had picked out. When they had all left, the Adjutant removed the unwanted files and the Captain sat back in his chair, musing. Outside the window it was raining again, harder than ever. Both helicopter pilots and dog-handlers would be cursing the weather. Each time there was a pause in his routine and he had time to think, the Captain was reminded that there were a good many things about this case that didn't ring true. Yet he felt more relaxed and confident than was usual at this stage and he couldn't help asking himself why. It was only on glancing again at his watch at three minutes to one and wondering what time the Substitute would turn up that he realized that the Substitute was the reason why. Instead of directing the inquiry he had admitted his inexperience and was following it. The Captain was freer than he could ever remember being in his whole career. What was more, the Substitute gave the impression that he could cope with any third party interference, at any level, with nothing more than the pursed lips and flicker of amusement with which he seemed to regard everything that went on around him. He had even introduced himself—'Fusarri, Virgilio Fusarri'—with an eager, boyish air that matched his thin face and figure but belied his hair which was grey. He must be forty. It's either money, thought the Captain, he doesn't need to work, or else it's a way of disarming people. He has the air of someone who always gets his own way. Well, it was convenient to be able to handle a case without interference from the magistracy, but it was also irregular. Captain Maestrangelo had no taste for the irregular. He picked up his telephone and got the radio room.